HD 'Seeker' 13 of 13 Nights
by tigersilver
Summary: AU: EWE. Not all dreams need to come true.


**Title:** Seeker  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Characters:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warning(s):** Wanking, snogging, heavily implied smexing.  
**Word Count:** 1,891

**Prompt: ** **hd_seasons** – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #13 (_Things that go bump in the night; come_)

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** Not all dreams _need_ to come true.

"Cum, Draco, cum! It's alright, it's alright…cum for me; I want you to…"

Harry's voice panted in Draco's ear and he clenched his eyes so tight his lids hurt and let it rip. His release jetted from the twitchy slit that slashed the head of his dick: pulses and throbs, in time with his accelerated heartbeat. It was glorious. "I want you to come, love," Harry murmured still, but his voice was fading.

He jerked and gasped, sticky liquid seeping through numbed fingers. Trailed a palm down his own flank for comfort.

"Harry…Harry; was good, that," he sighed, never opening his eyes, and rolled over. Breathed deep and dozed off again, his bones liquid beneath the warm coverlet. "…Brill…"

It was a precipice that he balanced on; a perilous drop looming starkly grey and rocky at the end of his slippery-soled boot tips. Mist roiled up in a cloud, and things—frightening beasts—swam in it, coagulating into shape and then disappearing on a breath: dragons, phoenixes, Morsmordre masks. Draco was clad in his Auror robes and for once in his life he cursed wearing them; the wind whipping at this high elevation was chill and fierce. A gust would take him over the edge if he wasn't extremely careful, his voluminous cloak transformed into a sail.

"Harry!" he called out, not knowing why he was here, wherever 'here' was, but knowing in his gut he had to find his partner. First of all and foremost, he must do that. "Harry, answer me! Are you there? Potter!"

The wind whistled relentlessly, coming at Draco from all directions, and it carried only silence.

"Harry!" Draco waited another endless moment, listening for all he was worth, the tips of his fingernails scrabbling for sound purchase on the sheer seamless wall of granite at his back. "Potter, come _on_! Speak to me! Don't fuck around!"

"Draco, Draco," his straining ears caught at long last, when he on the verge of doing something truly reckless—cast a cushioning spell, perhaps, or a high-powered Wingardium; step out off this narrow ledge and seek out Potter, rappelling down the cliff face regardless of any danger with hastily conjured ropes—and then he froze, solid, between one inhale and the next. A warm hand fell upon his sleeve out of nowhere in particular; travelled up his arm in a comforting slither, and Draco spun instinctively, releasing the unyielding rock face and shoving forward into a broad, manly chest.

"Harry, _where_? Where the fuck have you been?" he demanded angrily. "Don't you dare disappear like that! It took me so long—I couldn't find you!"

"Hush." Harry's voice was calm and steady and the one hand had become two arms to hold him. They spun on the magically widened ledge above the misty filled drop to certain death and Draco leaned in, patting Harry's form down gratefully with restless fingers. Harry wasn't lost; all was well—or would be. "I'm right here; right here. Draco. Hush now."

"Harry! Come down from here—it's dangerous…come here…with me…please."

"…Coming, coming, you impatient prat," the voice responded faintly, "just give me a moment," and Draco did his best to keep his hands on the fabric covered ribcage sliding away from his grip.

"Idiot Harry. You'd better," he scolded, spinning into Apparate…alone?

Draco jolted again in his sleep, his lashes fluttering, blissfully warm once more. Shivered a bit and rolled over again, clutching wonderfully stationary pillows and down blankets. Blinked, unseeing, at the darkness about him. Where ever he was now, it was a far more temperate climate. Smelt of flowers, the dark did. Smelt of cardamom and cocoanuts. He blinked himself back into sleep, never fully waking.

"Harry, _where _have you been? I hate it when you do this! I've been searching all over, you git-for-brains."

He was running after Harry again, but the weather was most definitely tropical—humid and moist, except where the salt-scent blew in from the ocean—and the terrain was flat. Palm fronds slapped his face, slicing thin sharp cuts across his cheekbones as he ran. He was running at great speed, past oblivious beachgoers on the brilliant white sand, past blue-violet-teal waters that beckoned, heedless of all that. On his left was dense forest; succulents and shrubby trees that all blended together into a maze of verdant lively green. It was all so oddly familiar, this vision—they'd been here together, to this particular place, before.

"Harry!"

He was breathless; was being smothered. The palm fronds and the creeping vines closed in around him, and he couldn't make it through. The forest was dark and creepy, and there was something stalking him on soundless paws. "Harry! Where in the fuck are you?" But he must stay. He must keep on with his running and seek, because without Harry—without Harry, it wasn't any good, all this pretty scenery. "Harry, stop hiding! I know you're here, git! Show yourself!"

He shouted, gasping as he chugged along, his pulse thudding in his ears, but there was no strength behind it. Pathetic little whispers that dwindled down at the end, carried away by balmy breezes, wafts of fertile soil.

"Harry, stop fooling around with me, dolt." Now it was a plea and there was shame brimful in every syllable. Big baby Draco Malfoy; couldn't manage without his partner—his lover. Couldn't manage to be alone, not again. Too long alone, he'd been. Couldn't bear it now, not since Harry. "Harry, please! It's enough already!"

"S'alright, love—s'alright. Sorry, sorry. I'm here, Draco."

There was that well-beloved voice, at last. Bared arms reached out to grab a viciously frowning Draco reassuringly—just as the beautiful beach abruptly folded in upon itself and sprouted a volcano.

The pretty summer pastel parasols went up in puffs of leaden black smoke; there were tortured screams from the scantily clad beachgoers. All was madness, all at once. Draco, wide-eyed with morbid terror, scrambled to haul Harry closer—the blasted thing was going to blow; he could see flames billowing already. There was no time!

"Harry, now! Hold on to me—hold on tight!" he ordered, twisting, twisting desperately into Apparation against sensations that weren't his lover's arms at all—creepy, Dark things that bound him and reached after his flailing limbs; that sought to yank him down off the Firebolt—that left him dizzy and sick, reeling. "Harry! _Now_!"

Here was a crash echoing suddenly—a subsonic boom that sent his heart rate ricocheting. "Harry!" What was it? The end of the world?

Draco had his hands out blindly reaching, but Harry had stepped back and away, closer to the thundering wave of hissing evaporated sea water and bone-charring liquid rock.

"Fuck, Harry—come _on_!"

"Come on, love, settle. It's alright," Harry repeated, oblivious to the danger, was merely standing there, smiling, a wall of livid flame bearing down. He seemed so calm, so…peaceful. It wasn't 'alright', not when the world itself was ending. Not when they'd die, and he'd be stuck in eternity without ever seeing Harry again. "It's alright, I swear."

"Harry!" Draco screamed, despairingly. It was the end, wasn't it? All over in a blast and he'd not once said—not once managed to spit them out, those stupid little words that he should've blurted at the first opportunity, as soon as he'd realized. "Please, Harry," he whimpered, and batted fruitlessly at the shimmer of heat and lung-stealing sulphur, poisoning the island breezes. "Oh, please. Come away from this."

"Draco! Draco! Wake up, now—you're dreaming!" His shoulders were gripped and shaken, making his teeth rattle as the blankets fell away. "Wake the fuck up, git!

"Ha-Harry?"

It was so dark, and he must've been hearing the thudding scrape of that godsawful teetery bedside table Harry insisted upon using to hold his spectacles and his nightly pleasure reading. It would rock back and forth on spindly carven legs at the slightest breath—utterly useless, that piece of shite, with no value as an antique, but Harry loved it and wouldn't let Draco be rid of it. And, too, there were springs protesting as Harry hurriedly climbed into bed and curled around him—the shriek of gulls from Draco's nightmare. He heard them now for what they were.

Only a dream, then.

It must've fallen, the bleeding table. With a dull thud, it had given up its always tenuous grip on the floor and gone over like a dead body, knocked off its pins by sheer momentum or even just happenstance.

_Things that go bump in the night_, Draco thought wildly. _Stupid, stupid freaking table!_ He reared up on his elbows. He hated it—hated waiting more! Waiting was torture; waiting was hell.

"Where the bloody fuck have you _been_, Potter? I was waiting! I thought you'd gotten yourself Splinched!"

"Oh, now, Draco—come on," his partner and lover and general, all-purpose thorn-in-his-side murmured soothingly. "I'm not such a twat, Draco. I'm fine, just a little later than I thought I'd be, that's all. But you were dreaming—having a nightmare, from the looks of it. You alright, now?"

Without a word, Draco wrapped his arms round Harry's neck and yanked him closer, fastening them lip to lip and nipping once or twice at the edges with bared incisors, so incensed was he. And then the snog bloomed, like a frangipani opening to the sub-tropical sun, and all the warmth of the Caribbean melted round him. They'd gone just last Easter hols and he remembered so vividly shagging Harry on the sand outside their bungalow. Waves had tickled their toes and danced across their ankles by the time they'd finished, and he'd lain there content in Harry's arms and finally understood what was meant by 'Paradise'.

"Harry!" He kicked the smothering covers aside and dragged Harry closer. "Come here, you stupid git—and get rid of that table, soon we're done. I want to shag you, you terminally late bastard!"

Harry laughed, and Draco stopped him short with another snog. He was frantic to taste Harry's saliva; feel the muscles that drove all that bronzy-gold skin sliding against his own, paler form—have Harry's cock in him, just as he'd dreamt of.

The vision of the cliff—the volcano—the all-consuming Fiendfyre blinked before his lids for a terrifying moment. Not even more than a glimpse, like snapshots from Hades, but enough.

"Harry," he groaned. "Wake me up, alright? I don't want to be dreaming without you. Make me stop."

"Love!" Harry's features scrunched up with worry—anxiety over _him_, Draco exulted—and he dove in, his mouth open and seeking. "Oh, Draco," he said, his voice muffled against Draco's mating tongue. "It's alright, it really is. I'm right here beside you."

"Fuck me, Harry, please. Right now. And don't be late again without Owling first, git."

"Never again—I promise," Harry's fervent voice swore from the tangles of Draco's hair. Draco wrapped his legs round Harry's waist with alacrity, barely leaving him room to maneuver a hand between them. When a finger poked in his hole curiously, he sighed with relief.

"You'd better. And I meant what I said about that damned table of yours, Harry—Harry! You listening?"

"Right here," Harry's open mouth trailed up Draco's throat, across his tight jaw. "But, erm—shut up now, alright?"

Fin

Happy Hallowe'en!


End file.
